


Hell's Kitchenaid

by dragonnan



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Crack, Cooking, Fluff and Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:07:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25909345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: What happens when "academy training" is exchanged for "culinary school".  AU.  Very AU.  And crack too.  Crack with a side of crack and a dash of lunacy.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Hell's Kitchenaid

“Spencer!”

“What!” Two voices responded, two heads turning his way. Lassiter scrubbed at his forehead before pointing towards the pile of food encrusted pans teetering on the edge of the sink. Spencer, the younger, rolled his eyes before slapping his sneakered feet towards the copper mountain. Meanwhile, Spencer the elder returned to the monkfish he'd been butchering.

“Dude, I told you we shouldn't have fired Ken.” Bitching not an uncommon occurrence with the young man, Lassiter still felt a sting of anger at the comment.

“As I recall it, you were the one that suggested to Vick that we let him go. Something about spreading tips too thin?” Muttering followed along with a scouring blast of hot water from the hose hanging above the inundated sink. Lassiter smiled as he turned back to his mise en place. Onions, carrots, and celery all neatly chopped and cooking down in a skillet, he grabbed the container of rice and slowly began adding the grains to a preheated saute pan of broth.

On the station opposite him, O'Hara was busy with her standing mixer, sifting flour and sugar over the mix of eggs, butter, and mascarpone. In a bowl at her side, slices of orange and pineapple waited to be incorporated into... whatever the hell she was making. Lassiter wasn't a pastry chef and tended to let her do whatever it was she did and stay out of her way.

“Fifteen minutes until service, people! Let's step it up!” Chef's white gleaming, Karen Vick strode through the kitchen and up to one of the large steel ovens against the wall. Inside, the duck was a rich mahogany, running with clear juice beneath the crackle of crisped skin. “This is ready to go, why hasn't it been removed from the oven yet?”

Swearing, quietly for once, Lassiter jogged across the floor and grabbed two hot pads before snatching open the oven door – the sound of sniggering following in his wake. “Shut up, Spencer!” Despite his caution, he still singed the pad of his thumb while lifting the pan free – the burn forcing him to drop the duck a few inches to the counter surface. Grease spattered up and out and he sucked the injured flesh while snapping his fingers and pointing to the mess. Giggles McSmirk lost his jollies and rolled his eyes instead, snatching a rag before slouching over to clean up the spill.

Over the injury, Lassiter lifted the duck from its shallow bath to let it rest on a warmed platter. Another jog back to his station and he turned down the heat on his rice before it could start boiling. Adding in butter and salt, he lifted a spoonful of risotto to his lips. Good flavor but still too firm. It needed at least another eight minutes.

Just then, the door to the kitchen swung open again, admitting a tall figure. Lassiter glared. “McNab!”

The younger man, spit shined and polished like a new coin, swallowed hard at the fury pinpointed on him. “Uh, yes, Sir?”

Pulling the vegetable mix from the heat, Lassiter nodded towards the duck. “Forget something??”

Blushing, McNab darted towards the bird and began searching for a knife. “I'm sorry, Sir! Francine lost her keys and I was helping her look for them.”

Of course she did. Cute and sweet, the server was constantly losing things. McNab, her personal white knight, was always front and center to slay whatever dragon of the week had made off with her chapstick, coat, or money clip. Come to think of it... the lady probably wasn't remotely the clueless ninny Lassiter had thought she was...

“Next time let Guster handle it. She's his problem, not yours.” Not that their headwaiter was incredibly adept at managing his staff, tending to let himself get caught up in whatever distraction Spencer was providing at the...

Crap.

“Spencer!”

“What?” Only one voice answered that time. Groaning, Lassiter turned to see the sink occupied only by the still unwashed stack of pans. Of Junior, there was no sign.

“Oh, you have got to be... Henry, where the hell is your spawn?”

Snorting, Henry dusted his fish with salt before dropping it in a pan with a sprig of tarragon. “I'm not exactly his keeper, Lassiter.”

Unable to leave his own station, Lassiter swore, loudly this time, before dropping a significant chunk of butter in a pan to start his rue.

Vick returned from the main floor, strips of paper in hand. “Tickets are in! Three risotto, two crab salad, and four scallops. Time!”

Lassiter lifted his head along with the other two people working appetizers. “Five minutes!”

“I need an extra three minutes on scallops!” Dobson always needed extra time on his scallops.

“How are we on the crab salad?”

Not a peep from that station. Lassiter glared towards the turned back as Vick spoke again. “I asked how long for the crab! Woody!”

The man suddenly spun, cleaver in one hand and the cord of his iPod curled around his finger. “Huh?” Yanking the earbud free, he shot his hip sideways to stab at the device with his pinky. “Sorry – listening to an audio book on Dahmer. The man was nuts but the things he could do with a rack of ribs...”

Vick, face delicately green, coughed into her hand. “That's... uh... very lovely, but do you think we can keep the iPod at home from now on?”

Smiling widely, Woody gestured with the giant blade. “Of course, ma'am!”

Sighing, Lassiter, once more, returned to focusing on his own food.

“You should add some pomeranian seeds to that.”

Full body jump as a finger prodded over his shoulder towards the risotto. “Spenc...! You're kidding, right? And for the record, they're called pomegranate seeds.”

Shrugging, Spencer nabbed a spoon and scooped out a mound of the rice mixture. “I've heard it both ways.” He made a face as he chewed. “Dude, salty much?”

Snorting as he shoved the backseat chef aside, Lassiter swiped the spoon back. “Been watching Food Network again? Let me tell you something; most of the people on those shows are idiots. They hardly qualify as... hey, hey, HEY!” Too late, Spencer darted around him, lifting a bowl that Lassiter hadn't noticed previously, and dumped the contents in the risotto.

“Damn it!”

Slipping to the other side, Spencer had a plate in hand and was spooning risotto in place before Lassiter could stop him. Then, half running across the floor, he skidded to a stop in front of Dobson.

“That one done?” Fork stabbed towards the seared scallop before Dobson could finish his nod, and Spencer was off again – racing towards the swinging doors even as one hand snatched out to grab the basil from his father's hand.

“Mr. Spencer, what the hell do you think you're doing?” Hand out to stop the charge, Vick stared at the young man damn near trembling with chihuahua energy before her.

“It's okay, I washed my hands.” Deliberately showy, his lifted the basil and set it neatly on the edge of the scallop. “Yahtzee.”

Then, nudging the plate towards Vick, he grinned, all teeth, as she took it from him with a frown.

Surely she wouldn't indulge the idiot. Not with nine tickets and more on the way. Surely not. Sweet Julia Child, she was!

Taking the fork, also held out to her in a tight fist by the shark toothed fool, she cut down through the tender shellfish and scooped a healthy quantity of the ruby peppered rice.

One bite. Slow chewing, a moment suspended amidst the hustle around them. And just as slowly, she smiled.

“Good work, Mr. Spencer! Ladies and gentlemen, I think we've got our new appetizer!”

Son of a...

“Just doing my job, Chef.” Out of nowhere, Guster appeared – ready and willing as he shared a fist bump with his brain twin.

Lassiter curled fists.

This was what he got for listening to his mother.

He should have been a cop.


End file.
